


risqué

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Skype Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-25 06:50:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14373252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: The package, innocuous and nondescript, arrives at Lovett's front doorstep about a week after the Tommy John ad copy changes.





	risqué

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleMousling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/gifts).



> you know the new [tommy john](https://undeployed.tumblr.com/post/173083356042/they-are-definitely-the-best-people-to-do-this-ad) [ads](http://lucy-vanpelt.tumblr.com/post/173116003228) needed some accompanying porn. molly, i know you love a good crossdressing scenario, so i hope you enjoy this!

The package, innocuous and nondescript, arrives at Lovett's front doorstep about a week after the Tommy John ad copy changes.

On its face, this is nothing new. Sometimes advertisers will send them samples of their products for better, more sincere endorsements: they're still working through the last of the KIND bars at the office, and last summer Elijah wouldn't quit talking up the complimentary NatureBox plantain chips they received until Sarah started regularly stocking them in the kitchen.

So it's not weird, necessarily, that Tommy John would mail them merchandise to help promote their new ad campaign. The thing is—this package is addressed specifically to Lovett, was delivered straight to his home, and when he opens the box up, every single article of women's underwear inside is actually in his size.

"Hm," Lovett says, lifting a pair of panties out from beneath the crinkled tissue paper. They're a dark burgundy color, and the elastic waistband snaps pleasantly when he stretches them out and lets go. "Okay," he says, thumbing the soft material. "Okay."

 

 

He mulls it over as he takes Pundit on her evening stroll and as he inhales leftover takeout from Tender Greens after getting home, and then keeps thinking about it through his post-dinner shower. He takes a minute before toweling off to stare at himself in the mirror, blinking moisture out of his eyes, rivulets of water running down his neck and into the fuzz of his chest hair.

Lovett's been running low on clean underwear anyway; he hasn't had a chance to do laundry since he got back from New York City, since before the Florida leg of their tour. This timing is pretty impeccable.

The Tommy John box is sitting where he left it, at the center of his bed, on top of the rumpled comforter. The tag on the burgundy pair, when he inspects them more closely, reads _cheeky_ , which seems apt. He rips the tag off and slides the underwear on, fabric stretching around his legs and waist. They're snug at the front, but he expected that. _Nestled goods_ , he thinks, and laughs quietly before he pulls his sweatpants on over them.

Ronan Skypes in ten minutes after Lovett's settled on his couch, Pundit curled sleepily on the rug. It's a well-worn routine by now; last year, they spent a lot of time trawling through the same manuscript together, or just listening to each other breathe over the occasional flurry of furious typing. It had been nice, even when stretches of 2017 became particularly stressful. Sometimes you just needed someone to stick around, someone to co-exist with, another voice on the line.

"Hey," Ronan says, waving like a dork. He's looked, on the whole, better rested this year. In the background, Lovett can see the dark blue of the evening sky in Manhattan through the window, and has to shake off the brief pang of longing—for Ronan, for all of it. It's silly; he was just there last week.

"You'll never guess what I got in the mail today," he says instead, dry, and watches Ronan's expression flicker behind his glasses.

"Do tell." Ronan always does a good job of keeping his voice level, even when he's trying to play ignorant. Years of practice will do that.

"You know, Tommy John just came out with a line of new women's underwear," Lovett says, shifting so he can cross his legs underneath him and perch his laptop on the coffee table. "They're actually pretty comfortable."

"Oh?" Ronan says. He's got his chin in his hands, and his mouth is slowly curling into a smile.

"I feel pretty confident in my endorsement, yeah," Lovett says, stretching his arms up above him. "Good color options, too."

"I've heard," Ronan says, tilting his head. There's another long beat. Ronan gazes at him, eyes sharp with focus; Lovett squirms. "So are you gonna show me or not?"

Lovett tisks and says, "Demanding," but he's already wiggling out of his sweatpants, to Pundit's mild consternation. Ronan's mouth has dropped open a little when Lovett looks at the screen again, which is always gratifying. "I like that these match my favorite jeans," Lovett continues, voice catching despite himself. "Color coordination is very important."

"Why do you think I picked them?" Ronan says, and Lovett grins.

"Ha! I knew it."

"Yes, you're very astute," Ronan says, rolling his eyes, but he sounds too indulgent, and Lovett can see the way his cheeks are turning pink. No matter how many times it's happened, it still feels heady, being able to do this to him.

"Did you use my coupon code?"

Ronan cracks up at that, face crinkling with his laugh lines, nose scrunched. "I did, you menace."

"Cool." Lovett twists his body so that he's in profile, head half cut off by the webcam so only his mouth and part of his nose are on screen, and hears Ronan suck in a quick breath. "What do you think?"

"I think," Ronan says, just a tad rougher than usual, "you should show me what the other options look like."

Lovett swallows, throat clicking. "Yeah," he says, picking up his laptop and slipping back into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He's already starting to get half-hard, dick pushing against the soft material of the underwear.

He leaves his computer at the foot of the bed and plucks the next piece out of the box, a pair of wine-colored boyshorts. They're basically just boxer-briefs for women, but they're cut in a different style, cropped closer, so when Lovett wiggles into them, they ride higher up his thighs than his regular underwear does.

"More coverage," Lovett says, doing a full twirl for the camera, and Ronan laughs, eyes twinkling.

"You look good," Ronan says, so genuine Lovett's stomach flips.

Lovett can feel himself starting to flush; his palms itch to reach out and touch, but he can't. "Okay, next," he says, turning back to the box.

"There should be one more pair," Ronan says, and there's something about the quality of his voice that makes Lovett's dick twitch. "And also—"

A camisole. Lovett lifts it out of the box with the last of the underwear—one of the thong-cut styles. Both of them are black, and Lovett sheds his shirt so he can pull the camisole on, the skinny straps digging into the meat of his shoulders. The thong's harder to tuck himself into, especially because he's almost fully hard now, filling the panties out, but he manages to fit after a bit of creative wiggling. The strip of fabric in the back dips between his balls and nestles between his cheeks. "I don't know about this wedgie-proof business," he says, too high, too thready. "Seems too good to be true." He pulls at the elastic band and snaps it against his skin, hissing when it stings.

"Can you, uh, turn?" Ronan says. Lovett does, and when he glances over his shoulder at the screen again, Ronan's arm is moving rhythmically beneath his desk, a wet thwacking noise filtering through the speakers. His face is a blotchy-red, silky bangs falling into his eyes.

"Ronan," Lovett says, clearing his throat. He climbs onto his bed, knocking the empty box aside, and adjusts his laptop so he's still in frame, kneeling with his legs spread wide open. He _does_ look good; he looks fucking obscene like this, skin glistening a little from sweat, a damp spot forming at the front of the thong, thighs braced against the mattress. "Hey, baby," Lovett croaks, and Ronan's face twitches toward the camera. "I wanna see you."

Ronan lets out a choked noise and scoots back in his desk chair just a tad, angles his webcam lower. He's got his own sweatpants shoved down, dick pulled up over the waistband of his underwear, shiny with spit and precome, working himself over with the circle of his fingers. Just looking at him makes Lovett's mouth water.

"You think—you think there really are no visible pantylines?" Lovett says, soft. He licks his right hand and dips it into his underwear, balances forward on his left as he jacks himself, slow and easy. It's not going to take long, if the burn in his gut is anything to go by. He tightens his fingers. "Ronan, I'll probably have to test that out, too, right?"

"Jon," Ronan says, wounded.

"Maybe I'll put these panties on underneath a sundress the next time we see each other," he says, "so you can make sure," and feels a rush of fondness unfurl in his chest when Ronan's eyes go wide. Lovett's toes curl as tingling builds in his thighs, pleasure swirling in his stomach, and he untucks himself from the underwear to stroke himself faster. "Might have to try with a miniskirt, too, just in case," he says, breathless, and Ronan comes with a surprised cry, the desk jostling a little as one of his knees hits it, jizz dripping down his knuckles.

"Fuck," Ronan pants, running his clean hand through his hair, glasses askew. Lovett groans, pitching forward so he can hitch his hips into it, thumbing his slit and rolling his palm around the head of his dick. "Come on, Jon—come for me, honey," Ronan says, watching Lovett unravel, and their eyes meet as Lovett teeters over the edge, making a mess all over the panties and his hand. He would feel worse about ruining a perfectly good pair of underwear, but Ronan's staring at him like he's the best thing he's seen all day, so Lovett's mostly too smug and satisfied to care.

 

 

"I'm taking a raincheck on the sundress idea," Ronan says later, after they've cleaned up and Lovett's moved back into the living room. He's in a fresh pair of panties and his baggy sweats again, lazily wandering through Horizon Zero Dawn on his PS4, sitting twisted on his side in a way that would make a gargoyle jealous. The underwear should be riding up, but somehow isn't; he does so appreciate truth in advertising.

"Send me whatever you want, Ronan, and I'll wear it," Lovett returns, shifting back against the cushions of the couch. It's not the biggest promise they've made each other, not by far. Ronan still smiles like it is, and Lovett grins back, helpless to resist.


End file.
